


I'm A "We"

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I'm Sorry, M/M, So much angst, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur makes plans. It’s what he’s good at.</p><p>He has short-term ones, like: <i>Check refrigerator, may be out of Eames’ favorite cheese</i> and <i>Call mother after job before she worries</i> and <i>Remind Eames to fix that obnoxious smoke detector that keeps going off. </i></p><p>And he has long-term ones, like: <i>Keep Eames Alive And Breathing</i> and <i>Don’t ever hesitate to trust Eames</i> and <i>Always be an equal part of the “we” that Eames said you are.</i></p><p>And the biggest, most important plan Arthur has is the one for Eames to follow if and when anything happens to him.</p><p>But Arthur doesn’t have a Plan For Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A "We"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/gifts).



> This piece (and its title) was inspired by [earlgreytea68's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68) fic, ["Any Eventuality,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6337246/chapters/14519392) as well as the comments from [Cricketcat9](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cricketcat9/pseuds/Cricketcat9) and [considering_lilies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/considering_lilies/pseuds/considering_lilies) that suggested the Eames' plans would involve a big yellow envelope or a random shoe box littered with notes and whatnot. 
> 
> Apologies in advance for the sadness.

  
_“I don’t have a moleskine. For if something were to happen to you. I…I tried to make one, I tried to organize who I would have to contact, and where you leave your loose aliases so I could be sure none of them were stolen, and whether there would be any legal issues with Lucky, and…I couldn’t. I just—couldn’t. I tried to and I—You’re my one eventuality I can’t imagine, Eames. You went and told me that I’m a ‘we’ and now I can’t ever go back to being an ‘I’ and I just want you to know that. Every time I do something that makes it look like I don’t trust you, I want you to remember that I need you to know that I trust you to never doubt how much I trust you.”_  
-EGT’s “Any Eventuality”

  


~+~+~

Arthur and Eames are together. They have been for a while now. Quite a while. In fact, when Arthur thinks back on his years with Eames, years filled with no-longer-organized mantelpieces and _Darlings_ and gunfights and fistfights and peaceful nights and sleepless nights and That One Incident that they both try never to talk about or reference or even think about, Arthur realizes that he’s been with Eames now for over half of his life.

And Arthur realizes he is quite happy about that.

~+~+~

They have been taking fewer jobs over the years, both of them richer than they deserve, and although they should probably follow Cobb’s lead and take only the easy, least-dangerous ones, Eames finds it impossible to ignore that siren’s call of an edgy, life-threatening job—and Arthur can’t deny him. (If Arthur loves that adrenaline rush as much as Eames, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.)

So they take maybe three jobs a year, at most, and make millions because their employers always seem to be aware of the danger, and are, perhaps, more concerned about it than Arthur and Eames can bring themselves to be.

And everything is perfect.

~+~+~

Arthur makes plans. It’s what he’s good at. Details, lists, logical things—those are Arthur’s forte. He knows now that he and Eames are a perfect team because of that, because Eames is more than happy to fly around, handling the aspects of dream-sharing that require creative, illogical, usually reckless and insensible thinking, while Arthur trails along behind him, making sure his fantastical Forger keeps at least one foot on the ground.

So Arthur has lots of plans.

He has short-term ones, like: _Check refrigerator, may be out of Eames’ favorite cheese_ and _Call mother after job before she worries_ and _Remind Eames to fix that obnoxious smoke detector that keeps going off._

And he has long-term ones, like: _Keep Eames Alive And Breathing_ and _Don’t ever hesitate to trust Eames_ and _Always be an equal part of the “we” that Eames said you are._

And the biggest, most important plan Arthur has is the one for Eames to follow if and when anything happens to him. He isn’t a fool. He knows that he could die any moment, either from a reckless driver or an angry mark or old age (although Arthur doesn’t let himself fantasize about that last one very often). The plan is in a small moleskine, labelled very clearly for Eames.

But Arthur doesn’t have a Plan For Eames. He tried, once, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Arthur doesn’t let himself fantasize very often.

He tells Eames about this one evening, in the dark, under the warm covers, warmer from Eames’ hulking, comforting mass beside him.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Eames murmurs, kissing Arthur’s temple. “I have one for you, too, darling.”

“You do?” Arthur frowns. He’s never seen one, and he knows where every item is in their house. “Where?”

Eames lazily raises the arm not coiled around Arthur’s waist to gesture vaguely, the motion lost in the shadows. “You know. Under the bed somewhere.”

Arthur sits up. “Under the _bed?”_

“Mhm,” Eames mumbles, sluggishly trying to pull Arthur back down into a horizontal orientation. “Under the bed.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, “that is a _horrible_ place to keep those kinds of plans.”

“No,” Eames protests. “No, it’s the perfect place. You know how I know that, darling? Because I can’t remember where, exactly, the plans are, and if I can’t find them, no one with criminal intents will.”

Arthur sighs and rubs his face. “What do you mean? How hard is it to find something under our bed?”

“No, no, no, darling, you don’t understand.” Eames coils his arm more tightly around Arthur and pulls him up against his chest, leaving just enough room for Arthur to breathe. “I tucked it under one of the panels under our bed. But I don’t remember which one.”

Arthur realizes in that instant that it is almost impossible to take a satisfyingly deep breath when surrounded by warm blankets and an even warmer Eames.

“Under one of the panels,” he echoes. “I see.”

“Perfect,” Eames says, and kisses Arthur’s ear. “Knew you’d like that.”

He’s fast asleep moments later, leaving Arthur no opportunity to yell at him for his poor judgement.

~+~+~

Arthur forgets about their nighttime discussion for months. Years. Those kinds of plans seem to be irrelevant in their current lifestyle, filled with broad smiles and embarrassing laughter and affectionate kisses and unwavering trust.

 _Who needs those kinds of plans when life is this good?_ Arthur asks himself each day he and Eames spend together.

 _Who forgets those kinds of plans when life is this dangerous?_ Arthur shouts at himself the day he is crouched on the floor, a bleeding Eames curled in his lap, their fingers tightly woven together, the day Arthur shoots everyone else in the room with him for being stupid, irresponsible, backstabbing people who let Eames get hurt.

 _Who ignores those kinds of plans when life is this cruel?_ Arthur sobs the day he feels Eames’ hand go limp in his, the day he hears Eames’ breathe, “Darling,” then nothing else, the day he is no longer a “we.”

~+~+~

Arthur makes plans. It’s what he’s good at. So he rearranges his short- and long-term goals, wipes the entire board in his mind completely blank, and replaces the neat lists with _Re-Learn How To Live_ in large, irregular strokes.

And Arthur follows that plan.

~+~+~

He remembers their nighttime discussion a week After, and he spends an entire day crawling under their—his— _their_ bed, looking for the plans He had promised him. The sun is setting when Arthur shouts, frustrated, and grabs the nearest thing—one of His heavy, steel-toed boots—and throws it like a spoiled toddler. The boot hits the floor with a hollow plunk.

Arthur blinks.

He runs downstairs for a hammer.

~+~+~

Arthur sits on the floor in their—his— _their_ bedroom and stares at the small box in his hands. It’s the box that the shoes he wore to their wedding came in. Arthur’s eyes itch.

On the cover, written in all caps in a thick, black, Sharpie, is a single word: _DARLING._ Arthur’s nose tickles.

He opens the box, ignoring how the lid trembles before he puts it on the floor, and stares inside. It’s an absolute mess of notes and paperclips and photos and Arthur takes a deep breath, ignores his increasingly itchy eyes and ticklish nose and delves in.

The notes are all frantic, rushed, sloppy, and so perfectly _Eames_ that Arthur has to stop every few moments to remind himself how to breathe. That’s Step #1 of his Re-Learn How To Live Plan, and he needs to make sure he follows that one.

Many notes are paper-clipped to important documents. Arthur sorts them all painstakingly.

 _Don’t look at this one, darling,_ is attached to Eames’ birth certificate.

 _Darling, this is ESPECIALLY important,_ is clipped to their marriage license and a photo of them in their tuxes, Eames grinning at the camera, Arthur staring, glowing, at Eames.

 _Look here, darling,_ with a wiggly arrow guides Arthur to a list of Eames’ different aliases (all of which Arthur already knows) and a list of all of the bank accounts and safety deposit boxes Eames has, with their corresponding keys.

 _So lovely, darling, as always,_ goes along with a news article about Fischer’s decision to split up his father’s business.

As Arthur makes his way towards the bottom of the box, he realizes that some of the notes are keepsakes, memories, not just instructions. He carefully places them in their own pile.

His pauses become more frequent, and it’s harder with each passing minute to breathe. Everything is shaking.

Finally, Arthur sees one last envelope resting, alone, in the box, thick and folded in half. He pulls it out. On the front, in gorgeous, flowing cursive: _Arthur. Darling. Love. Whatever happened, promise me you won’t blame yourself. I love you._

Arthur slowly unfolds and opens the envelope. Inside is every single document and contact Arthur needs to have, listed in alphabetical order, typed neatly and succinctly, with 1-inch margins and indented bullets and little boxes for Arthur to check off. Eames wrote on the top, _I love you. You and I will always be a “we.”_ Underneath, in smaller, cramped letters, he added, _If you turn around and rebound on some poor bloke, I can’t say I’ll ever manage to forgive you, though._

Arthur laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and he quickly puts down the envelope and all its important papers before the wetness on his face reaches them. He laughs again, hiccups, and curls up into a ball, head tucked against knees, arms wrapped around legs, and finally lets go, lets his entire body shudder and tremble and grieve.

~+~+~

He follows Eames’ plan, checks off the small, perfect boxes with each accomplished task, and manages to Re-Learn How To Live within seven months—much less time than he had anticipated. (Although, anything is much shorter than infinity.)

He retires from the dream-sharing community, leaving his contact information with Ariadne in case of an emergency, and sits in his—their— _the_ house, tracking down every last person who played role in the Job That Killed Eames.

He confronts every last person who played a role in the Job That Killed Eames, and then, after, he puts away his guns and knives and weapons and PASIV for good.

The wall in their—his— _the_ bedroom is covered with every single one of Eames’ notes. Arthur lightly trails his fingers along them as he prepares to go to sleep. Every night, as he curls into a ball under the warm covers, he misses the warmer, hulking, comforting mass that almost suffocated him with its security, and every night, he tries to be grateful that he no longer remembers his natural dreams.

~+~+~

Arthur opens a small bookstore and coffee shop a few blocks down the street from where he lives. He wanted to call it Eames’, but it was too risky if anyone in dream-share was still looking for him. He calls it The Waking Dream, instead.

~+~+~

By the time he’s old enough that his joints creak and his fingers stiffen in the cold and his old injuries predict the weather more accurately than the weather people, Arthur has almost gotten used to living without Eames. He still spots his Forger out of the corner of his eye, but he’s learned to curb the instinct to turn and look, frantically, excitedly. He still hears Eames whisper, _darling,_ in the quiet of the evenings, but he’s taught himself to act like he hears nothing.

He still curls his arms around himself each night, wishing, hoping, imagining that they are someone else’s, that they are bigger, warmer, safer. He can’t force himself to forget that.

He still talks to Eames each night, before he falls asleep, tells him about his day, his pet peeves, the strange customers, how much he misses him. He can’t even think about stopping that.

He still wears his wedding band, keeps Eames’ on a chain around his throat. Nothing will ever convince him to remove them.

~+~+~

One stormy evening, Arthur climbs into bed exhausted, shivering, stiff. He swears he can hear his bones groan with each movement. To think he used to be so lithe and young and lethal.

“It’s a shame you missed this novelty, Eames,” he mutters, awkwardly tucking the blankets around himself. A rumble of thunder rolls through the house. “I can just hear you now, calling it the delights of the living, or something equally ridiculous.” Arthur smiles softly and shakes his head. “I miss you,” he whispers.

A streak of lightning flashes outside the window, illuminating the room for a brief moment. Arthur sees the familiar pattern of Eames’ notes on the wall across from him, and the always-familiar silhouette of Eames standing at the foot of the bed.

He closes his eyes and sighs. “I do,” he says. “I miss you, Eames.”

Another rumble of thunder. _Darling._

“Mhm?”

A soft caress of gentle fingers against his, calloused from work but nimble from youth. _Darling._

Arthur doesn’t dare open his eyes, even as another bolt of lightning illuminates the room, the brightness flashing inside his retinas.

A warm hand cups the side of his face, and he hums, leaning into it. Fingers thread gently through his thinning hair.

_Darling._

“Eames.”

A soft whisper of air, the gentle pressure of lips against his. The world outside has fallen silent.

“Eames?”

“Open your eyes, darling.”

Arthur opens his eyes. Eames grins at him, radiant in a bright summer’s day, eyes glowing with happiness and love. He kisses Arthur again.

“I’ve missed you, too, darling,” he murmurs, cocooning Arthur in his arms. He kisses Arthur’s temples, cheeks, eyes, nose, threads his fingers through Arthur’s silky hair, dark and soft and thick and slightly curling without any hair gel in it. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“Eames.” Arthur sighs happily and closes his eyes, letting himself relax into the familiar warmth and safety. “I love you.”

Eames kisses the top of Arthur’s head. “I love you, too, Arthur.”

“Guess what?” Arthur says, smiling.

“Mm, what?”

Arthur’s fingers clutch Eames’ shirt so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t tear. “I’m a ‘we,’” he whispers.

Eames holds him closer, presses Arthur’s face into his shoulder. “You always were,” he responds. “Always will be.”

Arthur nods in agreement. “I know. But it’s easier to remember when I’m with you.”

“Well,” Eames says, rubbing Arthur’s back, “then you’ll never forget it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't include Lucky, because I think of her as EGT's, and I didn't want to ruin the adorable-ness of her character. ^^


End file.
